Chapter Fourteen LEO
The reception smelled like expensive liquor, melting candle wax, white roses… and the sharp metallic promise of violence.
It saturated the ballroom beneath the music, hidden under the polished elegance of a Moretti wedding.
Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead like hanging knives.
Gold candlelight reflected across marble floors so glossy they looked wet.
Waiters drifted between tables carrying champagne that cost more than most men made in a year while soldiers with concealed weapons watched each other over the rims of their glasses.
Every smile in the room was fake. Every handshake carried the possibility of betrayal. My wedding reception had become a battlefield wrapped in silk and diamonds. And I loved it.
I stood near the edge of the ballroom with one hand tucked into my pocket, bourbon burning low in my throat as I watched Chiara across the room. My wife.
The word still hit me like a drug.
The gold wedding band locked around her finger gleamed beneath the chandeliers every time she moved, and every glimpse of it sent dark satisfaction curling through my chest. Mine. Publicly. Permanently.
Nobody could touch her now without going through me first. Nobody would survive trying.
Chiara stood near the center of the ballroom surrounded by flowers worth a small fortune, looking heartbreakingly beautiful in white silk and misery.
The fitted gown hugged every soft curve I’d spent months fantasizing about ruining with my hands.
Pearls shimmered across the corset while diamonds dripped from her throat and wrists like she was some precious little offering laid at my feet.
But it was her hair that nearly destroyed my restraint. Loose.
Soft blonde waves cascading down her bare back exactly the way I’d ordered. The candlelight caught strands of gold in it every time she turned her head. I could practically feel that silk sliding through my fingers already.
For me. Always for me now.
Heat spread low and vicious through my stomach. Jesus Christ. I wanted her so badly my jaw physically tightened.
Not just sexually. Though that hunger was becoming unbearable. No, this obsession had sunk deeper than that. I wanted every expression she made. Every trembling breath. Every furious glare. Every soft sound she tried to hide when I touched her.
I wanted her completely consumed by me. And somehow she looked further away than ever tonight.
She barely reacted when people spoke to her. Barely smiled. Barely moved. Her hands stayed clasped tightly in front of her bouquet like she was holding herself together by force alone.
She was too quiet. That bothered me.
Usually Chiara burned. Even furious, she burned. Her emotions flashed across her face like lightning. Fear. Anger. Lust. Defiance. She felt everything too intensely to hide it properly.
But tonight? She looked hollowed out.
“You should smile more at your own wedding,” I heard from behind me.
Sergio appeared beside me soundlessly, dressed head to toe in black like death had decided to attend the reception personally. Black gloves. Black tie. Black eyes scanning exits and weapons and weak points while he sipped whiskey.
My oldest friend looked more prepared to execute somebody than celebrate me. Fair enough.
“So should you,” I replied.
“I’m not the idiot who married a Ventura girl in front of every hungry wolf in the city,” he reminded me.
A slow smirk tugged at my mouth. “You still disapprove?”
“I think half this ballroom is deciding whether killing your cousins tonight would be worth the mess,” he muttered.
My gaze swept lazily over the room. Angelo and Santino stood near the dance floor pretending to enjoy themselves while Lorenzo Ventura sweated through another glass of champagne beside them.
Across the ballroom, my uncle Edoardo watched everything through hooded eyes, his thick fingers drumming slowly against the table beside untouched dessert.
Predators. Every single man in this room smelled blood in the water. And all of them had wanted something from me tonight.
I took another sip of bourbon, letting the smoky liquor settle on my tongue. “They already got paid.”
Sergio’s expression darkened. He hated the deal almost as much as I did. A quarter of the city. Ports. Clubs. Gambling routes. Political influence. Protection money.
I’d handed Angelo and Santino enough territory to turn them from spoiled playboys into legitimate threats overnight. Lorenzo got insulation under their protection and enough leverage to keep lesser families off his back for years.
And in return? They left Chiara alone.
No interference. No attempts to take her back. No challenges to my marriage. No trying to rip my wife out of my hands. The deal still tasted poisonous in my mouth.
“You gave away too much,” Sergio muttered quietly.
“I gave away exactly enough,” I hissed.
“For her?” His gaze flicked toward Chiara again. “That girl better be worth a fucking war.”
I looked at my wife. Really looked at her.
At the exhausted shadows beneath those blue eyes.
At the stiffness in her shoulders. At the soft pulse fluttering in her throat beneath all those diamonds.
At the tiny tremble in her fingers every time somebody said my name near her.
Something dark and obsessive tightened around my ribs.
“She is,” I said simply.
Sergio stared at me for a long moment before exhaling through his nose. “Still as whipped as ever.”
I laughed softly into my glass. Maybe I was.
I’d been fucked from the moment she pushed trembling fingers into my hair in that moonlit garden. From the second she looked up at me through pain and fear while my mouth was wrapped around her ankle. From the moment she tasted like innocence and temptation and danger all at once.
Now she wore my ring. Soon she’d wear my fingerprints too. The image hit hard enough that heat surged through my bloodstream. Fuck.
I adjusted my cuffs slowly, trying to control myself while my gaze dragged over her body again. The elegant line of her throat. The delicate arch of her spine beneath silk. The soft swell of her breasts trapped behind white lace. The tiny waist I could span with both hands.
I imagined carrying her upstairs. Spreading her across black silk sheets. Pulling every frightened little sound out of her mouth until she forgot how to hate me properly. My cock hardened behind my slacks.
Christ. The reception felt endless. Too many congratulations. Too many meaningless conversations. Too many old men talking business while my wife stood ten feet away looking untouched and unbearably beautiful in white. I was done faking my patience.
A sharp laugh cut through the ballroom.
Angelo.
My eyes narrowed. My cousin leaned beside Chiara now, saying something with that permanently smug expression that made me want to break his jaw with my bare hands. He bent slightly closer toward her, and I noticed the exact second her body stiffened.
Her gaze dropped. Not shy. Upset. Something ugly scraped beneath my skin.
Before I could move, Sergio shifted closer beside me. “Careful.”
“I’m always careful,” I reminded him.
“That,” he muttered, “is the biggest lie you’ve ever told. You’re careless around her.”
Maybe he was right.
Angelo smirked at whatever quiet response Chiara gave him before disappearing back into the crowd. The second he left her side, I moved.
People parted automatically as I crossed the ballroom. Fear did that. Power did that. Conversations lowered the closer I got to her.
Chiara finally looked up at me. And there it was again. That silence. No glare. No biting remark. Just exhaustion and something colder underneath it.
My palm settled possessively against the small of her back. Heat seeped through the silk beneath my hand.
“You’re quiet,” I murmured.
“I’m tired,” she whispered.
I searched her face closely. “Did someone upset you?”
“No,” she lied. But before I could push further, another wave of guests approached us with fake smiles and congratulations dripping from their mouths.
My patience snapped clean in half. Enough.
“The reception is over,” I announced flatly. Confused murmurs spread across the ballroom.
Chiara blinked up at me. “What?”
Before anyone could object, I slid one arm beneath her knees and lifted her effortlessly into my arms. She gasped softly, instinctively clutching my jacket as whispers exploded around the room.
“Here we go,” Sergio muttered behind me. I ignored him completely.
Chiara’s perfume wrapped around me. Vanilla. White florals. Something sweet underneath that was just her skin. I inhaled once and nearly groaned from the effect it had on me.
“Leo,” she hissed quietly, mortified. “Put me down.”
“I don’t think so,” I said firmly.
“Everyone’s staring.”
“Good,” I hissed.
Her cheeks flushed pink beneath the ballroom lights. All my possessive thoughts slammed into me harder this time, nearly violent in their intensity.
Behind us, Sergio’s cold voice cut through the room. “Party’s over. Finish your drinks and leave peacefully.”
Nobody argued. Not with Sergio because it meant arguing with me, and no one dared piss off The Serpent.
The elevator ride upstairs felt unbearable. Chiara stayed strangely still in my arms while the city lights climbed higher around us through mirrored glass walls. Her gaze stayed fixed near my throat instead of meeting my eyes.
Something was wrong. I could feel it now.
The penthouse doors slid open silently. I carried her through dark hallways lit by low amber sconces until we reached the wedding suite waiting upstairs. Candlelight flickered across black marble when I pushed the doors open one-handed.
Black silk sheets. Champagne chilling in silver buckets. White roses scattered across dark bedding. The air smelled like amber smoke, expensive perfume, and anticipation.
Perfect.
My pulse slowed into something dangerous. Finally alone. I kicked the door shut behind us.